


as a razor's edge

by RosieTwiggs



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Facial Shaving, Kink Meme, M/M, Shaving, hahaha i have no fucking clue, lol who's the D and who's the s???, very light D/s undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 03:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14845013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieTwiggs/pseuds/RosieTwiggs
Summary: The pathway to salvation is as narrow and as difficult to walk as a razor's edge.Flint helps Silver shave after the events of Charles Town.





	as a razor's edge

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fill for a prompt on the Black Sails Kink Meme on tumblr.

_Scratch scratch._

_Scratch scratch scratch._

_Scritch._

_Scratch scratch._

SNAP.

The quill Flint has been holding snaps in half as he finally gives in to the urge and clenches his fist in annoyance. He hunkers over his writing desk, curling into himself to keep from snapping at his new quartermaster and breathes through the frustration.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty seconds of silence pass, and Flint breathes a sigh of quiet relief opens a desk drawer, and rummages for a new quill.

_Scratch scratch._

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” he growls, pushing his chair back with a scrape against the cabin floor and turning in fury to find Silver gaping at him, wide eyed, scratching at the short beard that has begun to grow on his chin and cheeks.

He makes an attempt to bite back his anger, but in all fairness, Silver has been occupying Flint’s cabin for the better part of two weeks, still forbidden from getting up and moving around more than is strictly necessary, and it’s more than a little bit possible that Flint has reached the end of his patience.

“Will you stop it?” he asks, his voice dangerously low.

Silver looks completely nonplussed. “Stop what?”

Flint clenches his jaw. “The incessant scratching!”

Silver frowns and then understanding flashes across his face. He rubs a hand along his cheeks and chin, brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized it was bothering you, I-” he falls silent.

“You?” Flint prompts him bitingly.

“I’m not used to this much facial hair, to be quite honest.”

Flint rolls his eyes heavenward. “Then why the fuck don’t you shave?”

Silver sets his shoulders, his lips pressing into a thin line. Flint has to remind himself that he’s not the only one fed up with these living arrangements, and he’s definitely not the one who got the shorter end of the bargain. He glances at the space where Silver’s leg would be if he still had it and then his eyes quickly flick back up to Silver’s face.

“I would be more than happy to shave,” he begins, voice dangerously low and speaking very slowly, as though trying to explain something to someone either extremely dimwitted, or very young. Flint feels his hackles raise. “But I can't stand _and_ keep my balance long enough to do so. And I fear attempting to shave ensconced in the window seat would more than likely end in disaster.”

All at once the fury goes out of him and Flint is left feeling cold and adrift. He furrows his brow, trying to find words, and for once in his life, utterly failing to do so. He’s become aware of Silver’s new limitations over the last week, and he’s had crew mates who lost limbs before. The concept is not new to him. Silver needs help changing his clothes and bandages, help relieving himself... But the true myriad actions that Silver is currently barred from had not occurred to him. The simple action of standing to shave…

Flint feels the beginnings of shame welling up in him and clears his throat. And then instead of saying anything, he stands and promptly leaves the cabin.

“Yes, please feel free to just leave me here, I’ll be fine!” he can hear Silver calling after him. Flint grimaces. He’s still a little shit, regardless of how many limbs he has, and he definitely doesn’t need Flint feeling sorry for him.

But he _can_ help.

He returns within moments with fresh water in a basin and a clean, dry cloth, stolen from Howell’s stores.

Silver frowns at him as he watches Flint drag a heavy side table over to the window seat, placing the bowl there. He putters around the cabin collecting a few more items. His own razor, a pearl-handled treasure he’d taken off the captain of one of the first ship’s he’d taken prize when he’d started as Captain Flint, a bar of shaving soap, again a precious item, difficult to come by in the new world, scented lightly with musk, and a soap brush.

He finally sits down on the window seat, directly in front of Silver.

“What are you doing?” he asks him.

Flint cocks an eyebrow. “You need a shave. I need quiet. Now sit still.”

He reaches for Silver’s chin and Silver flinches away, eyes guarded. Flint lets out a short, irritated breath through his nose and waits, hand outstretched. At last, Silver seems to realize Flint isn’t trying to hurt him, and leans forward, placing his chin lightly in Flint’s hand.

He rubs his thumb over Silver’s cheek, assessing the growth, and he _just_ catches a flutter to Silver’s lashes that he intentionally ignores. He tips his chin up, checking his neck and sees how Silver’s throat clicks with an involuntary swallow, feels the clench of his jaw.

He draws his hands away, perhaps a little too quickly, and dampens the brush, building up a lather with it.

This time, he raises an eyebrow in question before he reaches for Silver’s face again, holding the brush up at the ready and waiting.

Silver eyes him suspiciously, but then nods, and Flint begins to build up a lather along his cheeks. Silver hums softly and closes his eyes, and it is in this moment that Flint realizes just how intimate an act he is performing.

He suddenly wants to drop the brush and leave. Wants to pull away and scorn Silver once again, fling a sharp insult at him and run. He recognizes these impulses, recognizes their source, and he pushes through them, lathering, layering the foam on Silver’s cheeks in tight, gentle circles.

He thinks of Miranda. Miranda used to do this for him. He was more than capable of shaving on his own, but she had enjoyed the ritual of it, the closeness. He had thought of her when he’d shorn his own head in mourning, the straight razor scraping along his skull. The short bristles still bother him when he lies down to sleep at night, even two weeks later, a stiff and prickly reminder that she’s gone.

He finishes lathering Silver’s cheeks and neck, and swirls the brush along his chin, finishing the movement with a light dab of foam before he can stop himself. It was what Miranda used to do when she was done lathering his face. Once again, he shoves down the urge to flee.

Silver’s need in this moment is more important than Flint’s fears.

Silver had relaxed as Flint worked, slumping slowly back against the wall. His eyes are still closed while Flint rinses the brush and pulls the razor out from the leather case. The mother-of-pearl handle is smooth in his palm as he runs the blade along the strop, making sure the edge is sharp enough. He tests it against his thumb.

Perfect.

Silver doesn’t flinch when Flint brings the razor to the top of his left cheek, scraping slowly down, going with the growth of Silver’s beard. The sound is amplified in the stillness of the cabin, the only other sounds the gentle rush of the sea outside and the creak of wood.

He rinses the blade in the basin after each pass, a little splash and the chink of steel on porcelain. The movements follow the cadence of the ship’s motion, and Flint continues along the line of Silver’s cheek, slowly, steadily until it is smooth.

When he leans in with the razor to shave beneath Silver’s left jaw, Silver cracks his eyes open the smallest amount to watch him, the sliver of blue that Flint can see brilliant and sparkling in the sunlight from the open cabin window. Not more than six weeks have passed since he pressed a blade to Silver’s throat in the Wrecks and demanded the schedule page. Not six weeks since he would have happily slit Silver’s throat if given the opportunity.

Flint is frozen now, looking at him, caught in that stare. And then very deliberately, Silver tilts his head back, exposing his neck to Flint’s blade.

Something stirs in him. Something painful and raw and open. His cock twitches and Flint willfully ignores it.

He barely hesitates before leaning forward and wrapping one hand gently around the base of Silver’s throat, his thumb settling in the hollow. He brings the razor to the skin beneath his jaw and slowly scrapes down.

Silver sighs and his eyes fall shut again.

Scrape. Rinse. Scrape. Rinse.

Flint ceases to exist for a while in the pocket of solemnity that rises up, encircling them. His being narrows down to this simple action and the care he takes to do it well.

He turns Silver’s head to get at his right side, holding his chin in place to keep him from moving. He takes his time, immersing himself in the steady rhythm. Silver makes soft noises as he goes, sighs and hums and once, Christ help him, a low moan.

Flint has to lean in to navigate the expanse above his lip, his hand cupping Silver’s jaw. The John Silver he’d first met, the smooth faced bastard of a thief, is slowly revealed as the lather is scraped away. But when Silver opens his eyes they are not the eyes of the young man who’d tried to stab him in the back at every turn, but one who had fought and bled and struggled by his side without fail, and received nothing but grief in return.

Flint’s eyes dart down to Silver’s lips, now clear of foam. He can feel Silver’s pulse under his fingers, and against his better judgment, he trails those fingers down the side of his neck, tracing the soft skin down to his collarbone. Silver’s breathing hitches, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move.

Flint waits for a beat, two beats of Silver’s pulse, three, before he pulls back and rinses the razor one last time, wiping it dry and returning it to its case. He takes Howell’s cloth and dips a corner into the basin, turning back to wipe the bits of remaining soap away. Silver watches him now, his gaze never wavering, burning into him even as Flint refuses to meet his eyes. His heart is beating out a tattoo in his chest, and everything inside of him yearns for- what?

Something he can never have again.

“There,” he says at last, his voice cracking on the single word, and he hadn’t realized until that moment how long it has been since either of them spoke. He lets his thumb graze across Silver’s cheek one last time, let’s himself have this moment of weakness.

“There,” he says again. He’s done now. He can retreat now.

Silver reaches up and grabs his wrist.

Startled green eyes meet blue, and Silver holds him captive there, refusing to let Flint have his cowardice. It’s Silver who asks permission this time, raising his eyebrow, holding Flint in place with those eyes, with his grip on his wrist, with the warmth of his skin and the silence between them. He leans forward, breathing out slowly, his breath warm against Flint’s own lips.

No.

He turns his head at the last moment, longing warring with fear, with rage, and with a grief that spans a decade.

“I-”

He clears his throat.

“I’ll clean this up,” he manages to say at last, standing and pulling away, Silver’s hand dropping into his lap.

He looks so very young.

His wrist burns with Silver’s grip, an invisible mark that is unlikely to pass anytime soon. He’ll bear it with the discomfort of his short hair and with the inescapable memories of a joy long gone from his world.

Flint doesn’t offer to shave Silver again, and Silver doesn’t ask.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [as a razor's edge [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15168128) by [ponytailflint (inkgeek)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkgeek/pseuds/ponytailflint)




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